Gratuitous
by soupkitchen
Summary: It just hadn't been his night. And it really wasn't going to be hers, either.
1. Chapter 1

**Gratuitous**

**Chapter One: **

He couldn't really remember much of anything. But the origin of it all was meaningless, anyway. The important thing was that, somehow, somewhere, it _had _begun, and so here he was. Dominoes were falling, eyes were opening, pieces were fitting together. Or breaking apart, depending. And, more importantly, _he _was beginning to notice.

Whispers throughout the gutter had come to suggest that the Bat was getting involved personally – that the clown's calling card had finally made it all the way to the top. That was good. Because he didn't like waiting. Not once things had started.

And he was only just starting. There was so much more that he wanted to do, to unveil, but he had become selective of his audience. The police weren't worthy of his work anymore, they couldn't appreciate the art of it all. He needed someone to understand on a deeper level, someone who could grasp the comedy within the tragedy of it all.

Normally the thought alone was enough to set him salivating, but tonight, it only served to piss him off.

The Bat hadn't come out to play that evening, and that had been more than disappointing. Now, the clown could handle rejection – even a blatant refusal to engage still involved a form of active participation. It meant, at the very least, that _he_ was paying enough attention to say "no". But tonight the clown hadn't just been rejected. _He'd been fucking ignored_.

It wasn't just an insult to him, it was an insult to his craft, his message.

Next time the Bat wasn't going to have a choice in the matter. There would be, could be, no refusal. He was going to make certain of that.

As it was, the delicious game he'd planned out hadn't gone so well. The Bat might have chosen to stew in his own guano that evening, but several of Gotham's finest had shown up instead, and they didn't play as well with the clown. No, those boys had brought out their dogs and toys, one of which had narrowly missed lodging a bullet in his knee. As it was, the left leg of his pants was torn open and thoroughly soaked with blood – much of it his, but not all – and his movement had been reduced to an unpleasant limp. His skin was burnt from where the bullet had grazed him, hot from the officer's barrel and stinging the wound with traces of gunpowder. Bruises were forming where he had taken several blows, and there was a deep bite from one of the dogs in his forearm.

But, there were small triumphs.

"Always look on the bright side," he muttered to himself to a high, nasally tone, accentuating the word _bright _by flicking his tongue against his teeth.

He'd gotten away, for one. Three of his four hired hands had not been so lucky, damn them. It was becoming increasingly difficult to find reliable help these days, though if he thought about it, perhaps their inability to escape even a basic police ambush was an indicator of their 'reliability'. Regardless, it wouldn't be long until they met a similar fate as the fourth. Chuckles, as they'd called him, had gotten a fairly easy way out. Bullet between the eyes. Quick and clean, much cleaner, in fact, than anything that would happen to the others if they squealed. The clown _didn't_ _like squealers_.

But, it hadn't just been his side that suffered from the encounter. At least one of the officers would never be able to return to the force, two of the dogs would have to be euthanized if they even made it to the vet in time, and the damage done to their cruisers had been extensive. In the dark, he smiled dourly to himself. No wonder Gothamites had seen a rise in taxes.

The more he thought about it, though, the more he found himself still very angry. The bullet and the bites and the loss of henchmen would have all been worth it if the Bat had at least come out the watch...

A darkness of thought descended behind the clown's painted eyes, a heavy curtain of mental noise that rendered coherency impossible as he continued to limp through the shadows of an alley, growling to himself.

Walking all the way back to his current hideout after being so rudely stood up was simply un-fucking-acceptable.

Several long minutes later, the whining of a police siren broke through his furious musings. He did not look up, did not falter in his movements, merely narrowed his eyes and listened closely. The sirens were coming from the east. No concern of his in that moment, not half concealed in the dark of an alley with plenty of places to retreat to. The clown didn't hide, oh no, there wasn't a man that could claim he was a coward. Not a live man, anyway. But he did have an appreciation for the theatrical, knew how to use it to his advantage, and when not to. And far as he was concerned, tonight simply wasn't the night for an encore performance with the GCPD.

Out of habit, his hands slid into the pockets of his great purple overcoat, fingers twitching in the dark folds of fabric until they alighted on something. His left hand found a battered Zippo lighter, and in the right-hand pocket he tenderly fingered the butt of a revolver. Several loose bullets rolled together at the bottom of the pocket, and reassured, he removed his hands.

Guns were distasteful to him, albeit useful. Semi-automatics were great show-pieces – lot of noise, lot of fear – but there was something gaudy about them to him. Something cheap. Sure, the mayhem and panic were at their peak when somebody was shooting several rounds in mere seconds, but it was almost a sensory overload. No time to appreciate the experience fully, no time to drink in the screams and sobs, to savour the metallic bitterness creeping into his nostrils as he stepped across bloodied pavement. There was something... _unfulfilled _about that much destruction. Like an erection, full and hard, but with a partner too exhausted to finish.

The revolver, at least, was a sophisticated tool. Nowhere near the range of audience when limited to a handful of bullets at a time, but that was where the quality of the experience came in. People don't shit themselves in fear when bullets are flying from every direction, not enough time to think about it, instinct just kicks in and they run. But on their knees, staring down the barrel and watching the chamber spin... _tickticktickt... _like some kind of hellish Wheel of Fortune, those were the special moments. People gave up so much of themselves in those spare minutes between breathing and stillness. Such secrets he had been privy to, such intimacy. It was almost hard to think of them as strangers after such encounters.

Of course, knives would always be his favorite. But they were less good for shooting out the tires of a police cruiser, should it come to that.

The sirens gradually faded away, and the clown's shoulders relaxed slightly. A wordless noise rumbled in his throat, and agitatedly, he continued onwards. None of this, _none of it_, would be happening if the Bat had come out to play.

He probed his mangled cheeks with his tongue, swallowing deeply as a pool of saliva welled up from the motion. It was an old tic, barely even registered, but it served as a precursor to thought. The scars were an origin point for him, though any details beyond that were vague at best. All that mattered was the slightest touch gave him some measure of focus, and in that moment the clown was very focused indeed.

_What to do, what to do, what to do... Because, my friend, you've been very _un-coo-oper-ah-tive _lately, and I don't like being ignored. Not. One. _Bit.

An idea formed, a sickly wonderful idea, and he drank it in. It required work, oh yes, but brought to completion, it would be beautiful. Devastatingly so.

The Bat was going to pay dearly for his transgression that evening. He'd never ignore the clown after that.

His mood slowly improving, he carried on down the alley. After several minutes though, he thrust his hands in his pockets again, and took a step to the side. The back entrance of a building to his left had been flung open, and a woman in red high heels came stumbling out into the dark alley. She was young and drunk and headed in the same direction he was. The clown grit his teeth together and withdrew the revolver to check how many bullets were still loaded. It was empty.

Eyes never leaving the woman, he slowly filled four of the six chambers. He had just clicked everything back in place when he saw the woman stop, swaying where she stood uncertainly. Three very large men had emerged from various corners just a few meters up the alley, and they did not look all that interested in helping her home.

The woman was reaching for something in her purse, and the clown grinned to himself, deftly slipping his revolver back into his pocket.

_Oh, this'll be good. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Gratuitous**

**Chapter Two:**

_So, sweetheart, what's it going to be? You got something special hidden in that bag for nasty boys who want to play?_ The clown giggled to himself in the dark, watching in anticipation. The soiled leather of his shoes creaked as he rolled forward onto his toes, then settled back with his heels firmly on the ground. Hard to be patient when entertainment offered itself up to him, but then again, the woman was struggling with whatever it was in her purse, and the three men were barely steps away now. Her breath was rising in the night air, the warmth of panicked lungs contrasting with the chill of a Gotham October.

Finally, desperation won over inebriation and she flung out her wrist, brandishing something that looked like a misshapen handgun. The clown sucked his teeth, making a sharp, wet sound of approval. It wasn't a handgun, but a taser, and a larger one than should have been available commercially. This girl was _feisty._

The three men stopped short just an arm's length from the woman, and one of them openly guffawed. The deep, unpleasant noise had the desired effect on the woman – she faltered, responded to the threat by gesturing with the taser, swinging it in a half circle to address each of the men.

"You're making a big m-m-mistake," she stuttered, a piece of blond hair caught against her glossed lips, "I'm not just some woman you can mug in the street!"

Keeping their eyes on her weapon, the three men slowly started to move in a circle around her. The woman followed their movements unsteadily, almost tripping over her own heels as she twisted around. The man who had laughed at her, clearly the leader, was nodding his head slowly with pursed lips, a listening motion, but mocking in its exaggeration. Realizing her statement had done little in the way of helping her situation, the woman continued shakily.

"I... I'm a doctor, see? People know me, and are, uh, are expecting me later tonight. If...if you hold me up too long, they'll be worried. Because I'm important!"

The smallest of the three men (still reaching about six feet tall and over two hundred pounds) sneered derisively at her, showing white teeth amongst a pockmarked, dark face. "You don't look like much of a doctor to me," he spat, "but if you are, ain't that all the more reason to take from you? Doctors make a lot of money, y'know..."

A small squeak rose up from the woman's throat, and the clown leaned forward to listen, placing more weight on his right leg. He wanted her to fire the damn taser already, so things could get _truly_ interesting.

"Brotha's got a point, lady," the leader huffed at her, "You don't look like no doctor. Besides, who says it's your money we after?" He grinned broadly at her, lips spreading to show his gums. They were still moving slowly in circles around her, but she had come to a stop, pointing the taser now with both hands at whichever one was speaking to her in that moment.

"But I am!" she wailed shrilly, "Well, almost! Just one exam away from getting into Arkham as a psych doctor... and, and, and once I'm there I'll make a lot of money! Thousands and thousands of dollars, and I can make sure that some of it finds its way back to your three if... if you leave me alone now."

The clown growled to himself in the darkness. _C'mon sweetheart, give the trigger a pull... you know you want to... c'mon c'mon c'mon...!_

Perhaps there really was more to the dumb blond stereotype than he had ever credited. But still, the comment about Arkham had intrigued him, and he inched ever slightly from behind his shadowy reprieve.

"Look, lady," the leader started up again, this time with a tone of impatience, "we ain't got all night. So let's make this quick." He eyed her sternly, as though talking to a child, and reached forward to wrap his large fingers around her narrow wrist. The taser had been pointed directly at his chest, but the pressure of his grip was changing the woman's hold on her weapon, bending her wrist upwards to loosen her fingers. "Now, I suggest you let go of this – "

_ZZZZZCKT!_

Clearly the man's grip hadn't been tight enough.

Blue sparks of electricity lit up the woman's terrified face, eyes wide, glossed lips parted in a combination of physical discomfort and horror. The leader howled, hands instinctively rising to claw at his face where one of the prongs had lodged itself in his eye. Whether reflexively or intentionally, the woman's hand tightened around the taser, sending another vicious wave of electricity through the man's body. He crumpled, twitching.

The clown doubled over, stifling a laugh. _That had been_ _just too good. _

Judging by the size of the taser itself and the fact that her target was continuing to jerk and twitch and piss himself on the ground, there was more to the voltage levels in that thing than most manufacturers were allowed. Either she'd rigged it herself to pack that extra punch, or the little would-be doctor was dealing with some very interesting people in between study sessions.

Momentarily stunned by the incapacitation of their leader, the other two men recovered rapidly. One wrestled with her for possession of the taser, successfully wrenching it out of her hand only after she had pressed the button another time. Beneath them, the leader groaned as he was shocked yet again, blood squirting from his pierced eye. He made no movement afterwards.

"Fuckin' _bitch!_"

With the weapon still in his hand, the one thug hauled back his arm and slapped her soundly across the face. The woman shrieked, knees buckling beneath her. The second thug tangled his fingers in her blonde hair, pulling her roughly to her feet in preparation for another blow.

_Clap. _

_Clap._

_Clap._

The sound of applause coming slowly from the alley made the three of them stop. It was accompanied by an agonized laughter, the careful enunciation of each humorless syllable a harrowing reminder of whose attention they had caught.

"Ahh ha ha, ahh ho ho, ahh hee hee..."

Still clapping, the clown came to a stop just in front of the body of the fallen thug. Almost delicately, he nudged the man with his scuffed leather shoe.

"Now, ah, _that's _the problem with tasers. They're good when it's just you, and say, one other person. But for groups..." he trailed off, spreading his arms wide and letting his head droop to his shoulder. His eyes flickered, bright within their dark painted sockets, leering at the two remaining thugs. "For groups, well, they're a lot less useful."

Still with his head cocked, the clown reached down and plunged his hand into the depths of his jacket, fingers searching with purpose. Not the gun this time, no, he was looking for something special.

His fingers found the familiar handle of a favorite toy, and with a flourish, he withdrew his hand from his pocket. It was dark in the alleyway, but what little light there was caught the blade and glimmered threateningly. The clown swung his tongue about in his mouth, caressing the insides of his cheeks, eyes rolling over to examine his precious toy from the side.

"This, on the other hand," he purred, voice low and dangerously smooth, "or, uh, _in _the other hand, as the case may be, is about as useful as it gets."

He winked at the woman as he said it, jiggling his hand slightly to accentuate the fact it was him holding the dangerous item now. His lips pulled apart from his teeth, the horrible greasepaint smile spreading across his face. She was still a mess of intoxicated panic, capable of only a strangled whimper. Oh, he'd have her sober soon enough.

One of the thugs let out a snort, unimpressed. His right hand travelled down to the back of his low-slung jeans, no doubt reaching for a firearm. With his other hand, he gestured at the clown's weapon.

"Are you kiddin' me, man? A fuckin' _carrot peeler_?!"

The clown rolled his eyes and took a step forward, shaking his head distractedly. The motion somehow gave the impression that he had water in his ear that he was trying to dislodge, but it did nothing to lessen the awfulness of the smile still growing on his face.

"No, no, _no_," his voice was nasally now, mildly irritated, "I've got one of those too, actually, but I'd much rather show you what I can do with _this!_"

The muscles in the thug's arms had enough time to tense, enough time for his fingers to actually close around the handle of his handgun, but that was it. In one swift, lethal move, the clown closed the distance between them and the blade in his hand carved a path up from the thug's scrotum to his chin. Blood spurted from his neck as the clown slashed his knife to the side, opening up the artery. It splattered across the clown's face, a horrible contrast to the white greasepaint, his teeth showing yellow beneath it all.

The denim of the man's jeans gave more resistance than his flesh did.

Disengaging his hands from her hair finally, the second thug took a vicious swing at the clown's head. It was an easy block, the clown swung his arm up, letting out a cackle as the other man's fist collided with the still-tender flesh where the dog had bit him. The other arm continued to hold onto his first victim, the clown's fist tightening against the man's blood-soaked shirt.

Using the brief distraction to his advantage, the second thug kicked at the clown's wounded knee.

The collision of heavy boot on lacerated skin had the _very_ undesired effect of making him howl with laughter. Loudly.

After the initial attack, the first thug had remained standing only as a result of the clown's grip on him. Now, with his support buckling beneath him, the man folded like a piece of paper. Relinquishing his grip on the thug's shirt, the clown thrust his hand inside the deep cut he had made, rummaging about for the man's bowels. Just as the second thug was about to make another kick, this one aimed at his target's head, the clown launched himself up and wrapped an oozing noose of intestines around the thug's neck.

"Not so _gutsy _now, are you?" he growled through clenched teeth.

The thug gagged, frantically trying to escape his partner's innards.

"Jesus Christ!" he screamed.

"Ahh, he's not here at the moment," the clown replied, struggling a little to keep his grip on the slippery string of intestines, "but you're welcome to leave a message."

Behind them both, the woman staggered to her feet from where she had been crouching, almost childlike. One hand covered her mouth, the other was tapping at the air, blindly searching for something to hold on to.

The clown watched her over the shoulder of the thug he was throttling, unworried. She wouldn't be getting far. Not in the state she was in. And certainly not in those heels.

Nonetheless, he decided it might be best to finish things quickly. Didn't want to ruin the fun for her by showing off too much.

The intestines weren't proving to be a great garrote anyway.

He let the pulpy, bloody mass slip from his fingers and brought his knee up with crushing force between the thug's legs. Gasping, the thug curled his spine, and the clown used this lower position. Casually, he wrapped his arms around the thug's head, fingers poking cruelly against the underside of his chin. And then, all he had to do was twist.

The vertebrae grinded in resistance only momentarily before giving away with a gratifying crack.

The clown felt a shudder of pleasure go through him, and he let the thug drop to the street.

A few feet away, the woman's chest heaved with a suppressed wretch. Still reaching for support, she tottered for a few steps, and then collapsed again. The clown marched forward, bouncing exaggeratedly on the heels of his shoes. He came to a stop hovering above her, bending at the waist for closer inspection.

"_Hiii..._" he drawled.


End file.
